Never Forgotten
by onlyusuallychaotic
Summary: Post Reichenbach. Possible spoilers. What happens when Sherlock returns to 221B Baker St. after three years? Rated for future chapters!
1. Chapter 1

John walked out of the kitchen, tea in hand, and went to sit on the couch. His laptop was lying on the cushion next to him, The Science of Deduction's webpage open as it had remained most days for the past three years. His own blog had become nothing once again; He didn't post, he didn't visit, and he couldn't handle reading the past cases.

It had been three years since his best friend jumped off Bart's roof. Sherlock Holmes had been dead for three years.

His cell phone on the end table vibrated at the notification of a new text. John reached over to grab it and read the message.

**Are you coming over tonight? –Mary**

He didn't want to, but he had been avoiding seeing Mary for a couple of weeks now. He was running out of excuses.

"What's wrong with me?" He mumbled to himself. "She's your girlfriend for crying out loud!"

He typed back a reply.

**Probably. –John**

He was sure she was starting to hate him, but he didn't care; more likely than not, that was for the best. He dug the remote out from between the cushions and turned on the telly. It was three in the afternoon on a Tuesday. He didn't even know why he tried.

After turning the telly off, he threw the remote across the room and fell back into the couch, almost spilling the tea he had forgotten he was holding. He took a sip and grimaced. Somehow burning lava hot had transformed into the Arctic Circle.

John sighed, slipping back into the kitchen only to put the cup in the sink before making his way to his bedroom. Without turning the light on, he fell stomach first onto the bed, turning his head slightly as he tried to clear his mind.

He was exhausted all the time lately. He couldn't sleep, and when he managed a few hours, the smallest of noises would wake him up. When he mustered up the ability to go back to the flat on Baker Street, he spent every night for six months sleeping in Sherlock's bedroom. After those months, he decided it best to stop torturing himself and went back to sleeping in his own room. The house felt quiet and alone and yet sometimes he could swear he heard Sherlock moving about the apartment, messing with a new experiment, or simply breathing steadily while he took a nap on the couch.

John turned his face back into the mattress and groaned. It had been three years after all; he needed to stop letting the memories bother him to this extent.

He woke up suddenly; unaware he had fallen asleep but grateful for the surprisingly uninterrupted hours. Rolling onto his back, he looked over at the clock glowing red on the bedside table. The time was ten forty-five.

"Shit," he mumbled to himself, reaching into his pocket to get his phone. Five missed texts and they were all from Mary.

He tried to think of a simple apology to make up for his doing this yet again.

**I'm really sorry. I fell asleep. I don't think tonight will work after all. –John**

He fell back onto the bed, allowing his phone to bounce away from him on the mattress. He felt bad. It wasn't Mary's fault John wasn't in love with her, or that he didn't want to be with her anymore. To be honest, John didn't even understand why that was.

He sighed. No point in trying to do anything at this point except go back to sleep. Luckily, his mind was tired enough that it let him fall asleep relatively easily.

John woke up the next morning to his phone vibrating, telling him he had a new text. Groaning and rubbing his eyes, he rolled over, reaching his hand out to feel around for the cell.

**John, I'm not dead. –Sherlock**

"Wait…what!" John reread the text over and over until the actual meaning of the words started to sink in. "This has got to be a joke; an evil, demented prank," John murmured, falling back onto the bed.

He waited a few moments before deciding to text back.

**Sherlock's dead. So who is this? –John**

The doorbell rang. John sprung up from the bed, his eyes widening. This was starting to become too much. Regardless of the nagging doubt that screamed louder and louder every step he took towards the front door, he had to see. He had to know who it was, and if for no other reason, he had to kill every hope that Sherlock could possibly be alive because that was impossible, and just hopeful dreaming.

John made it down the stairs, taking short steps closer and closer to the front door. He reached out his hand placing it on the handle, leaving it there for a moment before opening it.

"Hello, John," a familiar voice said.

John was looking down at the ground when he heard the voice. His heart panged and he felt his eyes begin to tear up. After three years, this was not happening. He was most definitely hallucinating, going crazy, anything to explain why his best friend – his dead best friend – was standing on the doorstep of their old apartment.

Finally, he let himself look up.

"She-Sherlock," John managed to get out through shallow breaths. He was desperately trying not to cry, and that wasn't working terribly well. "I…I thought you were dead. I saw you jump. I saw you…you were…"

He looked back down at the ground, his hands turning to fists as he shook, both angry and hurt.

"I know. I'm sorry, but—" Sherlock said. He tried to step closer, to get inside the building, but John put his arm out to stop him.

"How do I know you're not a part of imagination? How do I know I'm not making this all up? What if this is a dream? Damn it, Sherlock, it's been three years! You've been dead and gone for three years."

"John, it was necessary. I'm sorry that it hurt you, but I really did have to do it."

"Okay, so for some reason you had to jump off the roof of a hospital. And live. So why did you have to disappear for three years? Mental health reasons? Vacationing is Aruba?"

"I know you're angry—"

"You're damn right I'm angry! What else am I supposed to be? Understanding and caring? Well I'm sorry if I can't understand why my best friend wouldn't tell me why he faked his own death and didn't tell me until three years later, bam! out of the blue he returns."

"John, please, let me come in."

John glared at Sherlock for a while longer before stepping aside. Sherlock took an uneasy step forward, and then continued on up the stairs. John sighed heavily before following him.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock was stretched out on the couch, his robe hanging off the side and barely managing to stay on his arms, though lying down. His eyes were closed and John hoped he was sleeping. He began walking to the kitchen, his footsteps as soft as possible in an attempt to not awaken the sleeping detective.

"Not asleep, John," Sherlock said, his eyes still closed.

"Oh. I hoped you were." John continued to the kitchen, this time walking normally.

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked over at John. "Why do you care whether I sleep or not?"

"Because you never do, Sherlock. People need to sleep, including you."

"I sleep."

"Oh really? How often?"

"Every couple of days."

"Alright; and how many hours each of those nights are you actually asleep?"

"A few. Enough. Why does it matter, anyway?"

"That's not good, Sherlock. You need at least one decent night of sleep each week. Can you try to do that for me?"

Sherlock smirked. "I will try, yes."

John was taken aback. He hadn't expected Sherlock to agree to it at all never mind that easily. "Right, well, good. Thank you."

That night John and Sherlock were sitting in the living room with the telly on. John was working on his blog, red computer on his lap while Sherlock played with the tie on his robe. John yawned and closed the lid of his laptop. He got up, placing the computer on a table.

"I'm going to bed. Good night, Sherlock. Try to get some sleep."

Sherlock looked up at the doctor as he walked to the stairs leading up to his room. "Good night, John."

John disappeared up the stairwell, leaving Sherlock to stretch out on the couch. Not having a big case to work on was killing him, but he couldn't start working again; not with everyone still thinking he was dead. Instead, he worked on small ones he could find in newspapers or online just to keep himself from going completely insane. He closed his eyes. Maybe he should try to get some sleep. After all, he had told John he would at least try to. Sherlock sighed and went to his own room.

As he lied on his bed he looked around the room, hoping he might become tired suddenly. He smiled a little when he remembered that John slept in his room on at least one occasion, though more likely multiple times. The bed was made differently and the pillows smelled very lightly of the shampoo he would always use.

John, though exhausted, couldn't seem to be able to fall asleep. A small part of him thought of the fact that he hadn't talked to Mary in a couple of days – since Sherlock's return – but a larger part hoped that Sherlock was getting some sleep.

Why do I care so much, John thought to himself. He wasn't sure, but he finally decided it was a normal reaction to finding out your best friend wasn't actually dead and returned home as if nothing happened. He murmured a stream of unintelligible syllables as he rolled over and buried his face into a pillow, stretching his legs out in an attempt to get comfortable.

A knock on his door made John jump up.

"Who is it?" John asked.

"It's me," Sherlock replied.

'Right, of course, who else would it be?' John said to himself as he walked to the door and opened it.

"What is it?"

"I can't sleep." Sherlock said.

"Did you even try to?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I did."

"Alright. Well, I don't know what you want me to say. Do you want some tea?" John tried to stifle a yawn that interrupted the last word of his question.

"No."

"Okay. So what do you want?"

"I want to sleep."

"Well that's a first, I must say."

"Could I, do you think it'd be possible for me to sleep in here tonight?"

"What, like switch rooms?"

"No, I mean sleep in here with you."

"Oh." John stared at Sherlock, confused at what he had just heard. Sherlock asking to sleep in his room with him? Surely he'd misheard something. And why was he happy about this?

"If it's okay with you, that is. I just think I might be able to sleep knowing someone else is there."

"Uh, sure. I guess, make yourself at home."

Sherlock smiled as he got into the side of the bed John wasn't sleeping on. John apprehensively walked over to the empty side, pulling the covers up to his chest as he lied down.

John rolled over onto his side away from Sherlock as he tried to ignore the fact that there was another person in his bed and that the other person was Sherlock Holmes. He yawned again and closed his eyes. Within a matter of a few seconds John was beginning to drift into a sleep when he felt a warm body next to him. In between being awake and being asleep, John was unaware of what was happening except that he was warm and comfortable. He felt something come around his waist and what seemed like a hot air begin blowing against his neck.

Suddenly, his eyes opened at the realization that he was awake. Sherlock's arm was around his waist, his body pressed up against John's, his breath warm against John's skin. He wanted to say something, wanted to move and get up, but he couldn't do it. Half of him was screaming with confusion and anxiety, but the other half was telling him to just be happy and go to sleep.

'John Hamish Watson, what have you got yourself into?' he thought as he allowed himself to close his eyes again, beginning to enjoy the warmth against the side of his neck and behind his ear. He was staying there for purely selfish reasons but he tried to convince himself it was because he didn't want to risk waking up a possibly sleeping Sherlock.


	3. Chapter 3

When John woke the next morning Sherlock wasn't there, having disappeared sometime during the night. John rubbed his eyes as they adjusted to the sunlight now pouring into his room. Rolling over, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and made his way downstairs.

"Good morning," Sherlock said, sitting in his chair.

"Good morning." John replied.

"Did you sleep well?"

John coughed, startled by the question. "Uh…yes, I," more coughing. "I did. Did you?"

Sherlock smiled. "No. If I fell asleep at all it was only for a couple of minutes."

"Ah, I'm sorry about that."

"Why? It's not your fault I can't sleep."

"Er…yeah. Do you want breakfast?"

"Not hungry."

"Okay."

Sherlock watched John as he moved around the kitchen; putting the kettle on, toasting bread, and opening the fridge with caution at the possibility of severed body parts again. With a short sigh of relief, John opened the door the whole way and rummaged about in it.

"Do you want to talk about last night?" Sherlock asked after a few minutes.

John coughed and sent the small sip of tea he had taken flying about the kitchen.

"Shall I take that as a no?" Sherlock asked, humour in his voice.

John grabbed a towel and wiped the tea off his chin. "Do…do you want to talk about it?"

"I don't have any preference, but I think you have a lot you want to say."

"Well, you've got that right."

"Alright. What do you want to say?"

"I'm just…confused, mostly."

"Confused about what?"

"About everything. You come back from the dead after three years and then this? I have a girlfriend!" John had turned around so that he wasn't facing Sherlock.

"You do?"

"Yes, I do. Mary. And I haven't talked to her since you got back. So what does that say about me?"

"Well—" Sherlock began.

"Rhetorical question, Sherlock."

"Oh, right."

"But that's not because of you. Before you came back I wanted to break up with her. And then what happened last night. Hell, I don't even know what happened last night. That doesn't just happen, though. Mates don't share a bed together, and they sure don't do…that."

"Are you upset about it?"

John remained silent for a few moments, playing with the towel he was still holding.

"No," John said quietly. "Why did you do it, anyway? Did you really think it might help you sleep?"

"Yes, I did. But that's just why I asked to sleep in your room."

"What are you saying, Sherlock?" John turned around, leaning on the table for support.

Sherlock stood and walked over to where John was standing. He looked down at the shorter man. John tried to look everywhere except in his eyes but eventually gave up.

"What's going on?" John asked, his voice soft as his breathing became slightly more erratic. His heartbeat sped up as his pupils dilated.

"I don't know," Sherlock said.

John laughed. "For once, the amazing Sherlock Holmes doesn't know something."

Sherlock smiled. "There are a lot of things I don't know." With that, he leaned down to touch his lips to John's. The pressure was soft as John's hands moved to Sherlock's shoulders, one entangling itself in his hair.

The speed picked up slightly, their lips working together but still maintaining a cautious tempo. Sherlock brought his arms around John, letting them rest at the small of his back.

"John," Sherlock murmured.

"Mmhm?" John hummed as he kissed down the length of Sherlock's neck. He pushed Sherlock's robe down his shoulders to allow more of his neck to become visible. Hungrily, he continued kissing the skin, alternating between licking and lightly nipping the soft flesh.

"We're in the kitchen," Sherlock managed through heavy breaths.

"Very observant," John replied, biting rather forcefully down on his collarbone. Sherlock moaned.

Sherlock was loving the feeling of John's tongue and teeth exploring the sensitive skin. His whole body was beginning to shut down as he allowed himself to just enjoy the arousing pleasure accompanying every touch. John's movements were become more and more forceful, more demanding, more ordering. Sherlock could see the soldier coming back into him and he loved it. But they were in a kitchen.

Sherlock could feel his knees beginning to waver as he body wished to collapse onto the floor with John. Almost as if he knew, John pushed Sherlock back against the counter and resumed his attack of Sherlock's neck.

John began unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt, kissing each new area of exposed skin as soon as it became available. Sherlock let his head fall back. John ground his body against Sherlock's causing them both to gasp and moan. Sherlock could feel his trousers becoming tighter as John pressed into him again.

Sherlock swallowed a moan as John sank down to his knees, kissing a path down Sherlock's torso. He began undoing his trousers, pulling both them and his pants down to his ankles. He leaned in to lick the length of Sherlock's hardened cock then wrapped his hand around it, stroking up and down as he kissed and tongued the tip. Sherlock gasped, placing one hand on the counter to steady himself as the other went into John's hair. John opened his mouth and took in the head of Sherlock's cock. John had never done this before, his mind filled with nervousness and anxiety, but Sherlock seemed to be enjoying it. He bobbed his head back and forth, each time taking in a little more until Sherlock was halfway inside John's mouth.

John began rubbing the inside of Sherlock's thigh mostly due to not knowing what else he should be doing. He listened to the noises the detective was making; sweet, delicious noises that could only be described as X-rated. Sherlock's grip tightened in John's hair, his knuckles turning white.

John experimented by moving his tongue along Sherlock's length as he moved. Sherlock let out a low moan.

Sherlock tried to push John's head away as he kneeled down in front of him. When John's mouth was no longer there, Sherlock's cock ached for the warmth it was surrounded by just a moment before.

"What is it?" John asked, worried.

Sherlock brought his hand to John, placing his palm on John's crotch. His voice hitched as he allowed the detective to remove his trousers. Sherlock wrapped his hand around John as he was pulled in for a kiss much deeper than before. He opened his mouth, allowing John's tongue access.

John brought his hand back to Sherlock's length as they tried to cling closer and closer to each other. Sherlock moved his head back again, gasping for air as he let out a guttural moan.

"John."

"Oh, Sherlock," John cooed in Sherlock's ear.

"I'm—."

Sherlock felt his body tense and tighten before he released. John came a few seconds after, Sherlock's hand still stroking the doctor's cock through the waves.

John and Sherlock looked each other in the eyes before John leaned in to kiss the detective.


	4. Chapter 4

John woke to a cold morning, holding onto his pillow next to him. He yawned, his eyes adjusting to the light. He groaned, forcing himself to stand and wash up. In an attempt to gain consciousness he splashed warm water on his face.

He walked back to his own room to get dressed when a voice stopped him.

"Good morning," Sherlock said.

John paused before looking over at him. "Morning," he said before gaining a quick pace back to his bedroom. What had happened the day before rushed back into his thoughts. They had done…that…and then John left the apartment. When Sherlock asked where he was going, he made a lame excuse about needing more milk and went straight for the nearest pub. He needed to think about what happened, and to do that he needed alcohol. Of course, every drink had the opposite effect on him. Instead of thinking through what happened, he forgot it all.

When he got back to the apartment, Sherlock wasn't anywhere to be seen, and John headed straight to bed, falling asleep almost instantaneously. Now he was awake, sobered by the sleep, and too afraid to go out into the living room again.

He sat on the edge of his bed and placed his head in his hands. Massaging his temples to rid the headache appearing, he tried to decide the best course of action to take now. But every thought of Sherlock made him think back to what happened and he could feel his lips against his own over and over.

John groaned and fell back onto the bed. He rolled over onto his stomach, buried his face in a pillow, and screamed (though granted a toned down scream so as to not awaken anyone or let Sherlock know anything).

Sherlock did know, however. He leaned his head against John's door, sliding down it to a sitting position. He closed his eyes and let his mind swim. Yes, he knew the physical symptoms of attraction and the mechanics of everything, but feeling it was a new concept. He thought he knew how John felt – his heart raced, his pupils dilated, he kissed back – but now he was locked in his room yelling into his bedding.

John lay on his side, his knees curled up to his chest, his eyes fixed on a discolored spot on the wall. Sherlock pulled his robe around his knees, resting his head back in the corner where the door met the frame.

Sometime during the day Sherlock had gone to his own room so he was no longer at the door when John mustered up the ability to go back downstairs after having changed. He went into the kitchen to put the kettle on and put two slices of bread in the toaster, waiting for the high pitched whistle.

John sat down at the table and opened his laptop. He took a sip of tea just as Sherlock came out of his room.

"John," Sherlock said, his voice much softer than normal.

"Sherlock," John said looking over only once in recognition.

Sherlock sat on the couch, continuing to look at John and his forced typing used only as a means of distraction.

"John," Sherlock said again. "We need to talk."

"Alright," John said. He swallowed nervously.

"How do you feel about me?"

John was shocked at the blunt question, though he probably shouldn't have been. "What do you mean?"

"You kissed me, you did that, but you're distraught. So, how do you feel about me?"

John paused. "I don't know," he said quietly.

"You don't know?"

"No. I've never felt this way about another bloke before so it's confusing. I don't know what happened, why it happened, or if I want it to happen again."

Sherlock's gaze remained free of detectable emotion. "Did you enjoy it?"

"Yes, Sherlock. I did. But that doesn't mean it should continue."

Sherlock didn't respond. They sat there in silence, the first little while spent still looking at each other. John broke the contact, turning back to his computer. Sherlock waited for a moment before getting up to go back to his room.

"You should get some sleep," John called without looking up.

Sherlock scoffed as he walked through the door.

_I know this chapter is long overdue and shorter than the others. I had a massive case of writer's block – which is still here for the most part. Anyway, I'll try to update soon! Please comment with suggestions or whatever you want; I'm always looking to improve._

_I hope you enjoyed this chapter and the story as a whole so far :) Thank you so much for reading it!_


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock rolled over onto his side, pulling some of the blanket that had fallen to the floor over his legs. He was uncomfortable and kept adjusting himself and his robe in order to gain a better position. When that didn't work he proceeded to punch the pillow beneath his head and eventually threw it to the floor. He sighed in frustration and forcefully landed his head back on the mattress.

A thousand thoughts swarmed through his mind and he had no idea what to do with them. This was a new concept to Sherlock; not knowing what to do, what to think, or what anything meant. John didn't want what happened to continue, and Sherlock was angry. No, not angry, hurt. Sherlock was hurt. He had never felt that before or never let himself feel that before. Of course he had been sad before, but this felt like his chest was tightening, constricting around his lungs, closing his throat, and at the same time the pressure was all of a sudden going to burst out from within him. All because Doctor Watson rejected him.

The apartment grew silent as Baker Street acquired a cacophony of sounds; people talking, laughing, groups singing drunk on the way home from a pub, car horns and taxi drivers, music from stereos and apartment buildings on the other side. How could the world be so alive when inside 221B was so quiet.

Sherlock was still awake. The blanket was tangled around his leg with one sticking slightly off the side of the bed. He was breathing evenly, no longer throwing punches, and staring out the window. The sky was relatively clear though no stars were visible. Instead, flashes of car lights lit up the room as they drove past.

John was lying on the couch staring up at the ceiling. He sighed and got up, walking over to his flat mate's bedroom door. He raised a fist to begin knocking, then lowered it. Sighing again, he pressed his forehead to the cool, wooden door.

"Sherlock," he whispered. "Why is this happening?"

He placed his hand on the doorknob and let himself in. He noticed Sherlock in an almost disheveled position. His two pillows were lying on the floor and the only thing keeping his blankets on the bed was his one leg holding them in place. Both of his hands were beneath his head acting as a makeshift pillow.

John cleared his throat. "Sherlock," he said.

Sherlock remained unresponsive. John walked closer to the bed. He picked up the rest of the blanket on the floor and untangled it from Sherlock's legs. He shook it out on top of the man so that it would lie flat on top of him. John picked up the two pillows and placed them back on the bed. Sherlock stayed still, his breathing the only noise in the apartment. John bit his bottom lip and lay down next to him. He put his head on one of the pillows and wrapped an arm around the taller man. Sherlock stiffened at John's touch, but after a few moments ended up moving back against the doctor.

John moved in closer, his head buried in Sherlock's dark hair, his lips only millimeters away from his neck.

"John," Sherlock murmured.

"Hm?"

"Why are you here?"

"I live here, remember?"

"No, I meant, in my room, right now. Right here. Why?"

"I don't know. Because I want to be, I suppose."

"Do you really want to be?"

"Yes."

John pressed his lips against Sherlock's skin causing the man to shiver slightly. John began pulling the blanket off of Sherlock before returning his hand to Sherlock's waist.


	6. Chapter 6

John kissed Sherlock's neck again, his hand roaming the man's side. Sherlock suppressed a small moan and turned around to face John.

"Stop," Sherlock said. John was taken aback, but he listened and moved his hands away.

"What is it?" John asked.

"If you want to continue this, that's fine. But this is your only warning. If you do anything else then there's no turning back. Alright?"

John didn't answer. Instead, he looked at Sherlock for what seemed ages. Suddenly, he wrapped a hand around the back of Sherlock's head, his fingers intertwining in his curls, and pulled him in for a kiss. Their lips were warm against each other, both wanting control. John lightly bit Sherlock's bottom lip. Sherlock gasped in surprise and kissed back with even more ferocity. When their speeds lessened, if only slightly, John's tongue ran along Sherlock, asking his mouth to open. He obliged and their tongues met.

Sherlock melted into the kiss, his arm around John, pulling him towards him, trying to get him closer and closer. John's hand pulled at his hair while the other lifted his shirt. He tugged at the fabric, pulling it up, but had to break the kiss momentarily to remove it completely. John moved to Sherlock's neck, kissing and lightly nipping the skin. He ran his tongue down the length to his collarbone, biting down much harder than before. Sherlock arched up slightly, letting out a breathy moan.

John moved so that he was on top of Sherlock, straddling him, still occupied with his neck. John's hands began roaming around Sherlock's chest, finding already hardened nipples and squeezing them between two fingers while biting down just behind Sherlock's ear.

Sherlock groaned. His hands moved fast to the bottom of John's shirt, pulling it up and over the man's head. John moved so he was sitting on Sherlock, drinking in the sight of the paler man below him. The soft, pale skin of his stomach up to his chest, his long neck, open lips still reddened, a mess of dark brown curls, and those eyes whose color John had long given up trying to pinpoint. This was Sherlock, his flat mate Sherlock, and he was beautiful.

Right then, Sherlock moved his hips upward, against John, causing the doctor to throw his head back and gasp. John felt his trousers being undone, the zipper being pulled down, and soon he was released of his final two layers of clothing. He bent down and kissed a trail down Sherlock's torso. Soon they were both fully exposed.

"John," Sherlock said in a low voice.

"Hm?" John murmured.

"Kiss me."

John obliged. He moved so their lips met again.

Sherlock wrapped a leg around John and rolled his hips into him again. They both moaned at the sudden friction.

At that moment John wanted nothing more than to be in Sherlock, causing him to scream out in pleasure, moan his name, and beg for more. He no longer cared that he was a man; he was Sherlock and that was all that mattered.

Sherlock continued rolling his hips against John causing the doctor to release a slur of obscene sounds. He needed to be inside Sherlock, and he needed to be right then.

"Sherlock," John said in a commanding voice.

"Yes, John?" Sherlock almost purred his name. John's voice wavered momentarily.

John sat up. "Roll over and get on your knees."

Sherlock swallowed. He knew what was coming next. The direct order somehow managed to make him even more turned on than he already was. He rolled over and propped himself up on his knees, leaning over on his arms in a way that his ass was sticking up in the air. John suppressed a groan at the sight.

He ran a hand down Sherlock's side and kissed a trail down his spine. John moved his hand closer to Sherlock's opening, moving a fingertip to press down on it slightly.

"Hnng, John, please."

John placed a finger in his mouth in an attempt to lubricate it before pressing it inside of Sherlock slowly.

Sherlock gasped at the first entrance. When he became more comfortable with the feeling and began loosening his muscles, John began to move his finger with a steady pace. Once he thought Sherlock was ready, he added another finger without warning, keeping the pace going.

The pain subsided quickly and Sherlock began pressing himself back against John's fingers, wanting more. John opened them, stretching Sherlock wider and added a third.

After a few moments, John slid his fingers out of the man. Sherlock felt suddenly empty and he didn't like it. He needed the emptiness to be subsided; he needed to be filled. Thankfully he felt John pressing himself against the opening only a few seconds after.

John stroked the precum leaking from the tip of his cock down his length. He pressed against Sherlock, the tip entering slowly. Sherlock groaned below him, shuddering as every centimeter pressed into him, filling him.

"Oh, god, Sherlock. You're so tight. Fuck," John said.

"Mmm, yes, fill me John."

John grasped Sherlock's waist and pushed into him the rest of the way. Sherlock yelled out, the pain both agonizing and wonderful. John remained still for a moment, letting Sherlock get used to the new girth inside of him.

After some time during which John proceeded to press kisses to Sherlock's back, Sherlock's muscles had loosened.

"Please, John. Move," Sherlock begged. And John did.

He pulled out of Sherlock a few inches and slammed back in. John continued rolling his hips, moving in and out of Sherlock, the tight warmth almost too much. But he had to hold out; had to make this incredible feeling last.

Sherlock began fucking himself back on John's cock, the pace becoming much harder and faster.

"John," Sherlock moaned.

John reached a hand around to grasp Sherlock's length, stroking him with a similar pace.

"Fffuuuu. Unf…John. I'm going to…I can't hold out. I'm going to come, John."

"Come for me, Sherlock," John cooed. Sherlock shot out over his chest and John's hand.

He could feel Sherlock's orgasm through his body, tightening around him. It almost brought John over the edge as well.

John pulled back almost all the way before pressing back into Sherlock, hard.

"Come inside me, John."

That was all it took to bring John Watson to orgasm. He released into Sherlock, coating himself deep inside of the man. He rode the waves of the orgasm for a few more thrusts before collapsing on top of Sherlock.

He placed another kiss on Sherlock's spine before pulling out slowly. Sherlock let out a small, soft whimper when John left him. It was such a quiet noise, John was almost unsure whether he heard it or not. He decided he had heard it.

"Don't worry," John said. "You can be filled by me again next time."

Sherlock was surprised. So there was going to be a next time. He smiled.

They were lying side by side, their arms around each other, still feeling the fall of their orgasms. John pressed a kiss to Sherlock's lips which was returned.

"When you were gone," John began. "I had no idea what to do. I was a complete wreck."

"I'm so sorry, John," Sherlock said.

"Don't ever do that to me again."

"Never. I will never leave you again."

John pulled Sherlock in closer. '_I love you_,' he thought, but he couldn't bring himself to say it. Not yet.


End file.
